


Regardless of the Drift

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Disabled Character, Drift Compatibility, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pacific Rim AU, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras was off to save the world, and Grantaire had left to preserve what was left of a world that had already ended. They might be drift compatible, an unstoppable team, but that was the stuff of fantasies, and no one would believe it. </p><p>[[Pacific Rim AU from a kink meme prompt]].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The first of the sea monsters- the kaiju, they called them, they came out of nowhere. Combeferre immediately was called in, along with some of the other greatest minds of their generation, to come up with a solution. Jehan had tagged along as his assistant, offering to help in any way they could, in exchange for a chance to witness it firsthand. 

Enjolras had been campaigning still, taking advantage of the scattered situation to push more equality bills through a frazzled government that wasn’t up to putting up any resistance. He was on fire in those days, nothing could stop him. The end of the world was nothing but background noise to him, just the inconvenience of Combeferre’s departure. 

Bahorel was the next to go. Combeferre sent for him, requesting his weapons expertise. Whatever project he was working on, it seemed to be going well. With Bahorel on their side, he said, he was sure they would have something that could take out a kaiju in no time. 

Around that time, Joly and Bossuet met Musichetta, a beautiful diplomat’s aide from Argentina who seemed to drop off the face of the earth shortly after they first met her. There was nothing for two days, as if she had up and left. And then an e-mail. Grantaire didn’t know what it said, but it could be no one but her. They officially resigned from Les Amis the same day, concentrating only on finding her.

Grantaire had no real reason to stay, then. It had been clear when he first joined that he was welcome as their friend, and for no other reason. But it was the end of the world, and no one questioned him anymore. And he stayed, because that was what he did. Where else would he go?

He could have left with Feuilly, when Combeferre invented the first of his weapons, to help build the rest. He was a good hand, as steady as Feuilly and nearly as clever, but there was nothing for him outside of Paris. Combeferre asked him, but he refused. “Let the world end,” he said. “All good things, right?”

Combeferre must have told Enjolras, because from then on, his gazes were colder. But Grantaire stayed, because that was what he did. 

Finally, the process was perfected. A jaeger, it was called. Created to fight the monsters, controlled by humans. “It needs two people,” Combeferre said over video call to the few who remained. “One can’t handle it.”

Grantaire wondered if he was the only one who thought of Jehan, an all-too-willing test subject for the monsters they had built. 

“Any two?” Courfeyrac asked. 

Combeferre shook his head. “We don’t think so,” he said. “They have to be in sync. Maybe we could train it into someone, we don’t know yet, but for now, the search is mostly for volunteers who already have that sort of relationship. Joly and Bossuet would be perfect candidates, for example.”

“They’re off following some girl still,” Enjolras scoffed. “We haven’t heard from them in months.”

Grantaire spoke up at that. “They’re in Australia.” He might not defend himself from Enjolras’s scorn, but he would defend them. “Bossuet traced the last time her email was accessed to Sydney. If you loved someone, wouldn’t you go to any lengths to find them?”

Enjolras drew himself up, ready for a fight, but Courfeyrac put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Grantaire,” he said. “I’m glad you’re keeping in touch with them. Combeferre, what about us? The three of us could do it, don’t you think?”

“Possibly,” Combeferre said. “I would like to test it, though.”

“We can be there by the end of the day tomorrow,” Enjolras said. 

They left the Musain that night, travel arrangements made, to pack. Courfeyrac stopped as they left, looking at Grantaire. There had been no question of how many tickets they would buy; it would always be two. 

“Will you come?” he asked. 

Grantaire almost answered. But Enjolras spoke before he could. 

“Of course he won’t,” Enjolras said. “He’s in love.”

“What?” 

“He’s in love,” Enjolras repeated, “With Paris. Wine, and women, and his own selfish debauchery. He doesn’t live in the real world, so its end will mean nothing to him. Like waking from a dream.”

Grantaire bowed jauntily. “Enjolras is correct,” he said. “There’s nothing for me there.”


	2. Chapter 2

California was hot in the summer, hot in the winter, hot all year round, especially when you were working on the Wall. The jaeger program had fallen apart and been put back together, but still, the option of creating a wall around the Pacific made people feel safe.

Well. Most people. The jaeger pilots made them feel safer, living in a landlocked city made them feel safest, but the Wall was tangible and concrete (literally in some parts), and it feels good to be on one side of the wall with the monsters on the other. That, of course, relies on one being on the right side of the wall.

Grantaire was used to being on the wrong side of things, though. Building the Wall was hard work, traveling up and down several different coasts through several different countries, but it was work, and it kept his body busy and his mind free. 

That was, until the day his team reached the Mexican border. It was hotter than it had any right to be, and they had a day’s break before crossing the border, which most of the team spent drinking. Grantaire liked these people. 

But he was stopped on his way back to their camp by a face he hadn’t seen in years, a warm hand on his arm. Feuilly pulled him into a tight hug before they even said hello. The hug was instantly followed by punching him in the arm. 

“You bastard,” Feuilly said. “How have you not come to visit us in all these fucking years?”

Grantaire just leaned in and hugged him again. A retort rose up in his throat, but it couldn’t make it way past his teeth. 

This time, Feuilly held him close, pressing his face into Grantaire’s dirty curls. “I missed you, asshole,” he muttered. 

“Missed you too,” Grantaire said. 

Feuilly pulled away, his eyes serious. “Grantaire,” he said. “You need to come back.”

That was enough to make him drop any warm and fuzzy feelings he was having for his old friend. “I think it was made pretty clear that I wasn’t welcome a long time ago,” he said. “Besides, you have no use for me there. The jaeger project is where the geniuses and the soldiers go, the Wall is a haven for functioning alcoholics. You don’t need me there.”

“No one ever said that,” Feuilly insisted. 

“I just did,” said Grantaire. “Enjolras agrees with me.”

“That’s why you need to come back.” Feuilly just _looked_ at him, his gaze suddenly soft and sad and almost pitying. “Grantaire, there’s been an accident.” 

*

Enjolras was alone when Grantaire arrived. They had fished the bodies out of the crash, Feuilly had explained. He had been in Argentina, following up on some information that Joly and Bossuet’s new girlfriend and copilot had shared. Grantaire wondered vaguely if this was the same girl from before, and didn’t ask.

As soon as he had heard, Feuilly had immediately booked one ticket to California and two tickets to Japan. Apparently, his old friends had known exactly where he was along the Wall this whole time. Of course. 

The left side of the jaeger had been hit the hardest. Courfeyrac was their left pilot, Combeferre in the center- contrary to their typical roles. Enjolras was on the right. 

Still, even with him, the injuries were bad. He was still unconscious, hadn’t woken up yet, Joly said. His arm was broken from the fall, bandages covering most of his body, and even in sleep his eyes were crinkled in pain. 

After all these years, he still looked the same. His face was soft and gentle, his features somewhere between regal and godlike. He was, without a doubt, the same man that Grantaire had loved for so long. 

After hours sitting by his bedside, those long eyelashes flickered, the freckle-dusted nose crinkling, and slowly, ever so slowly, Enjolras’s eyes opened. 

Grantaire leaned forward, hardly daring to hope. “Enjolras?” 

Blue eyes focused on him. His full lips worked for a moment as he regained full consciousness and seemed to figure out where he was. And then he spoke. 

“- Courfeyrac?” 

“Still in surgery,” Grantaire said. “But he’s alive. They both are.”

“Who?”

“Grantaire,” he said gently. Was it the drugs, or the pain, or the accident? Or did Enjolras simply not remember him?

But he must have, because two heartbeats passed, and then Enjolras opened his mouth again and began to scream.


	3. Chapter 3

At that point, Grantaire decided to cut his losses. He didn’t go back to the States, although he was tempted. No matter what people said, he was more than just his feelings for Enjolras, and he did care for his friends, and he was staying until he was sure that Combeferre and Courfeyrac, at least, were alright. 

Once Enjolras was released from the medbay with bruises and scars but little permanent damage, Feuilly would notify Grantaire any time he was forced back to his room to rest. Grantaire took that opportunity to visit his friends. 

Combeferre woke up within a day, before Enjolras was allowed to leave the infirmary. He was significantly more injured than Enjolras was, his left side nearly torn to pieces, his eyes unfocused and staring at where his left hand ended at the wrist. Courfeyrac was not awake. 

It was two weeks before Courfeyrac finally woke. Grantaire wasn’t there at the time that it happened, he had been called in to see General Lamarque, commander of the base. 

“You were asked to come several years ago, weren’t you?” Lamarque asked. “When we hired on Feuilly, I remember there being another mechanic Combeferre recommended to us.”

Grantaire nodded. “And, obviously, I didn’t come.” 

“Until now,” Lamarque pointed out. 

“It’s different now,” Grantaire said. “I heard what happened to _Trinity Revolution_ , and I dropped everything. They’re my friends.”

Lamarque’s face was carefully neutral, and Grantaire looked away first. 

“Are you planning to stay?”

“Until I know they’re alright,” Grantaire said. He hadn’t really set a plan, not being overly fond of the things, but the thought of leaving before he was certain made his stomach boil.

Lamarque nodded as though he had expected this response. “We don’t have room here for vacationers,” he said, though his voice was not as harsh as his words. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll need to work.” 

Grantaire wet his lips. “Do you need a mechanic?”

*

Feuilly caught up with him as soon as he was dismissed and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him down the hall without stopping to explain. 

“Ow,” Grantaire said, rubbing his affected arm, where Feuilly had managed to pinch more skin than cloth. 

“Sorry,” Feuilly said, not sounding sorry at all. “You need to get down here. Courfeyrac is awake.”

Grantaire let him drop the arm, continuing at the same pace. They crashed down the corridors, pushed past strangers without hesitation, until they made it to the medbay.

Enjolras was there. 

Of course he was, Grantaire had been stupid to think he wouldn’t be. Of all people, Enjolras would be there when Courfeyrac woke up. After all, he had barely left since the accident, so why would now be any different? 

It was different, of course, because Grantaire wasn’t leaving. He didn’t approach when Feuilly did, stayed just inside the door as he watched his friends crowd Courfeyrac and annoy the doctors, but he stayed. 

It took about half an hour before the doctor was satisfied that Courfeyrac was stable enough to have all of the visitors, who didn’t seem overly convinced that there even was a question. During that time, Courfeyrac kept trying to reach out to them, saying their names in the same soft, slurred voice he used when the doctor asked him questions, testing his memory. He mumbled his way around the President’s name, but his indelicate fingers hesitated just over the emptiness at the end of a wrist, repeating “Combeferre” with such certainty and reverence that no one could really doubt his memory. 

He cried when he saw Enjolras, mostly uninjured, and Grantaire looked at the floor, hands in his pockets, before he could see if Enjolras cried too. 

Bossuet steered him towards the crowd before he could leave, waving excitedly at Courfeyrac with a “look who’s here!” Courfeyrac’s whole face lit up, as though the thought of Grantaire coming to visit made all the injuries worthwhile. 

As they were finally herded out, when Courfeyrac’s eyes started to drift closed and even his friends could see that he needed his rest, Enjolras stopped Grantaire with a hand on his arm.

*

“Stay a moment?” he asked. 

Grantaire obeyed, swallowing his instinct to respond, knowing that if he did, the only words he would be able to think of would be “anything for you”. Enjolras didn’t need to know that he still felt the same, even after leaving. 

(Logic told him that he had stayed, that he had only left Paris after all of his friends were gone, but somehow, it felt like he was the one who had left them, not the other way around.) 

“I’m glad you came,” Enjolras said. His hands were linked behind his back, formal and rigid, like he was speaking to a stranger. Maybe he was. But a spark of anger stirred through Grantaire at his words. 

“Of course I did.” Grantaire’s voice was harsher than he had intended. Rough from cigarettes and breathing in the salt air, from sleep and from extended periods of limited use. Enjolras hadn’t heard his voice in seven years. “Did you really doubt that I would, once I heard?” 

“Yes.” 

Enjolras was unblinking, unapologetic. But he never lied to his friends, so that much, Grantaire could take comfort in. “After how we left things, how could I not? You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want any part in our work.” 

“And you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me.” Grantaire couldn’t help the cold snap in his voice. Enjolras stirred up emotions in him that were better left bottled, thoughts building up behind his eyes like summer allergies, giving him a headache almost as bad. 

“That’s not how it was,” Enjolras said. He sounded annoyed, like he was already exhausted having to put up with Grantaire being unreasonable. “You stayed behind, and with everything that was going on, we didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t willing to help us fight the kaiju.” 

_We_ he said, like the others were the ones who’d left. Somehow, the thought of his friends trailing along so easily behind Enjolras’s lead, disdaining him the way Enjolras did, hurt worse than any insults or sharp words that their leader could have thrown at him. 

Grantaire shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It was what it was,” he said, which was true at least. “You never had any time for me to begin with, why would the end of the world be any different?” That was not a lie, unless the omission of the way his whole being seemed to cry out for Enjolras to see him, at the end of all things if never before. “It didn’t bother me.” 

That one was a lie, and Enjolras must have known that, because he didn’t shoot anything back at him. He only nodded, somewhat sad, as though this was the answer he had expected all this time. 

Grantaire wondered at that. Did Enjolras really believe that? Had he spent these past seven years believing, whenever he spared a moment to think of Grantaire, that his once-loyal follower was still in Paris, in love with wine and woman and debauchery and never once thinking of his friends?

“I’m sorry I screamed at you,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire barely had a moment to wonder _which time_ before he added “in the infirmary. It wasn’t personal, of course, I just- I was disoriented.” 

There seemed to be more that he wasn’t saying, but Grantaire wasn’t going to push him on it. Enjolras needed to open up about what had happened, that much was clear, but there were so many others who he trusted, who loved him better and more selflessly than Grantaire ever could, and who he would turn to when he really needed them. 

So when a few seconds passed and it became clear that Enjolras wasn’t going to go on, Grantaire simply shrugged, hands deep in his pockets, and said “I didn’t take it personally.” 

That, too, was a lie.


	4. Chapter 4

He stayed, while they recovered. No one at the Wall would miss him, and it was good to see his old friends again. Feuilly helped him adjust to his new job, fixing up jaegers after their lost battles. _Trinity Revolution_ was nothing but scraps, and his hands shook in their gloves as he stood in the water up to his knees and fished out blood-splattered parts from where they had limped back home, but he didn’t ask to be reassigned. 

There was no question that the three pilots were removed from duty. To be in someone’s head, to know what it felt like for them to be ripped to pieces, and to survive- most pilots who came out of that wreck never really did, and they never stayed on the base for very long. 

Enjolras did, though. Admittedly, he was the only one of them who could really leave, at least at first. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both kept in the infirmary for weeks, but even after they both were released, there was no question that the three of them would stay together, and that they would stay here. 

They gave Combeferre the science department. He fumbled through the delicate work before handing it off to someone else, still unused to the clumsiness of his prosthetic hand. But behind the numbers, he was as brilliant as he had ever been, and to see him play them like a musical instrument was like watching a magician back in the act.

Grantaire saw him more often than he saw the other two, if only because Joly often helped him out, and Grantaire followed Joly around like a puppy these days. 

Being around his friends again was like coming home, but being around Joly and Bossuet was like waking up, like being himself again for the first time in years. The two of them had found their Argentinian spy and followed her halfway around the world as she had been chasing down the source of the kaiju. She hadn’t found it, Grantaire doubted that anyone ever would, but eventually she let herself be found and led them to Japan. The three of them were unhesitatingly drift compatible, moving in sync even when they weren’t in the jaeger. They showed Grantaire around it more than once, beaming like proud parents. 

“Her name’s _Giver Flock_ ,” Joly said, visibly puffing up. 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Giver Flock?” he asked. “Give-r Flock. Give a… how did they let you get away with that?” 

“Bird puns are always welcome here,” Musichetta said firmly, and Grantaire thought that he liked her. 

Courfeyrac was released a few days after Combeferre. He still spent most of his time in the infirmary and getting physical therapy, but he resisted any pressure to go back to the mainland for his recovery. 

Grantaire didn’t know how they got away with it, why Lamarque didn’t insist, but somehow, they pulled it off. Combeferre ran the science department, settling into it with ease. It had been his baby, after all, so it was only right that he would be the one to run it. 

Courfeyrac helped out with the training. His expertise was in high demand, and his welcoming smile and easy demeanor made him a quick favorite with the new recruits. And Enjolras, who jumped straight back into the fight without a pause, ran the tactics division. 

Grantaire was quietly impressed with all of his friends. Somehow, all of them had managed to change the tides of this war. Even Feuilly managed to take a job turning screwdrivers and infuse his creativity and intelligence to make his jaegers sing.

And Grantaire himself? He did as little as possible. Scavenged the leftover bits of the _Trinity_ as well as he could, oiled the joints of the _Flock_ , and in his spare time, he sat in the back of the canteen and drank and watched his friends pass through life on their own bright stars, lighting up his sky.

*

Grantaire had been there for about a month when he was pulled out of his regular duty shift for testing. Bahorel was waiting for him in the mat room, a big grin on his face and a wide array of weapons in front of him. Grantaire stopped. 

“This looks like a recipe for disaster,” he said.

“I know, right?” Bahorel’s smile only grew. “We haven’t gotten into trouble together in a while.” 

Grantaire laughed and stepped fully into the room, letting the door fall closed behind him. “Alright,” he said. “What are we doing today?”

Bahorel gestured with a wide sweep of his arm to the room around them. “Drift compatibility,” he said. “As you know, only pilots who are completely in sync can take on the psychic burden of piloting a jaeger together. Early tests picked people based off of their emotional bonds, but that’s a not particularly good way of doing things.”

“So we fight each other?” Grantaire asked. He had heard of potential pilots doing this, picking up the single sticks or going hand to hand with one another to see who was more evenly matched.

But Bahorel shook his head. “That’s not much better,” he said. “We can in theory find people who are really well-matched in combat, but so what? It’s a feeling you can’t capture anywhere else, to find someone who you can fight alongside.”

“Okay.” Grantaire shrugged. “You’re not giving me a whole lot to go on here. Do you want me to guess?” 

“Computers.” 

Bahorel grinned widely and flicked off the lights. In the dark room, Grantaire could see the little red lights of dozens of cameras all along the walls and the floor. It felt like there must be no place where one could move and not have every inch of their body captured. He fought down the irrational desire to curl up and hide, and experimentally covered up the lens of one of the floor cameras with his foot. It was still smooth, the same texture as the rest of the mat, and could just as well have been the same material if it weren’t for the red light. 

The lights went on again, and Bahorel was smiling at him. 

“Eponine Thenardier is our tech genius,” he said. “She and I are working on a good way to sort out the best and most compatible pairs we can find. We’re using the same fighting strategy, but Eponine has devised a program that will analyze our every moves and show whose moves are the most in line.” 

“So you’re just analyzing who has the same fighting style as me?” Grantaire asked. 

“Not quite,” Bahorel said. “It’s not about the style, it’s about the fluidity of your moves and the emphasis you place on each part of your body. It’s very scientific, see?” 

“Right.” Grantaire wasn’t fully convinced, and Bahorel, clearly noticing that, laughed. 

“Come on, pretty boy, I’ll show you. Give me your best shot.” 

As skeptical as he was, Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh at Bahorel’s familiar taunts. He kicked the weapons aside, choosing instead to drop into a wrestler’s stance, not even having to watch the way that Bahorel mimicked his pose and attacked.

*

It took a few days for Eponine’s program to fully analyze the recordings, but she and Bahorel caught up with him on his lunch break and dragged him off to the computer room. 

“You’ll never believe who we matched you up with,” Bahorel said excitedly. 

Grantaire didn’t even bother to ask. 

Eponine showed him how the moves were analyzed, but in all honesty, it looked just like a series of dots moving across the screen to him. She had assigned numbers and letters to them, and he ignored her full explanation, choosing instead to stare at the pretty lights. 

A dot indicated each joint, showing how they moved. He was watching the screen that showed a blue dancer set against the red one on the other, mesmerized by its grace. This fighter was carrying something, Grantaire could tell, and it was too tall to be him, but the beauty of the blue dancing took his breath away. 

“Do you like that?” Eponine asked. Her lips were twisted into a thin smile. “Blue over there is your copilot.” 

Grantaire tore his eyes away from the screen. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Do you know how rare it is to actually be drift compatible? I thought you were just gathering samples to do science or something like that.” 

Eponine shrugged. “Science,” she said serenely. “Yes, for the most part. But you did turn up with a match. Possibly the clearest I’ve ever seen, to be honest.”

“Who is it?” Grantaire couldn’t help but look again at the dancing blue figure, feeling the way his stomach swooped as he watched. 

“Enjolras.” 

Grantaire’s head snapped up. “What?” 

Bahorel repeated her words as though Grantaire genuinely hadn’t heard. “Enjolras,” he said. “He’s your copilot.” 

“He already has two,” Grantaire pointed out. A thought occurred to him. “Is he compatible with everyone? That would be just like him.”

“The word you’re looking for is multi-compatible,” Eponine said. “And no, Enjolras isn’t. Courfeyrac is, by the way, but he’s not exactly going to be getting in a jaeger anytime soon.” 

Grantaire glared at her sharply, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. 

“It looks like you and Enjolras would be perfect copilots,” Bahorel said. “Look, you see how you’re both moving? Can’t you see it?” 

Grantaire glanced at the screen. “We’re out of step,” he said. 

“You’re not supposed to be moving at the same time,” Eponine growled. “That would be the worst jaeger ever, can you imagine? It’d move both legs at the same time and fall over. We’re designing fighters, not bunny rabbits. You and Enjolras are out of step in the perfect way. You two would be a game-changer.” 

It felt like there was ice water being dripped down his throat. “No we wouldn’t,” he said. “There’s no compatibility there, okay? Enjolras hates me, I barely know him, and neither of us are jaeger pilots. He’s retired, remember?”

“You’re not,” Eponine pointed out.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t plan on starting anytime soon,” he said. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“Not yet.” Bahorel was watching him carefully. 

“Don’t.” 

“We have to file a report with Lamarque,” said Eponine. 

Grantaire sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He was too tired for this, for thoughts of being perfectly made for Enjolras, for being in each others’ heads. All the coffee in the world couldn’t prepare him for this. 

“Fine,” he said. “File your report, do what you have to. But don’t tell Enjolras, alright? If he has to hear it from anyone…” 

“He should hear it from you?”

He glared at them. “He should hear it from his superior,” he said. “Don’t lead him to think anything of this, alright? It’s just a fluke in your programming, and I don’t want you two to try to convince him anything else.”

*

Grantaire assumed that the report was filed, but he didn’t quite dare to follow up on it. He went back to work as if nothing had happened, shrugged off Bossuet’s questions about his results with a laugh and a denial, and did his best to pretend that he didn’t know.

He crawled into the top bunk in the room he was sharing with Feuilly and stared at the ceiling at night, wondering if it was true. Could he and Enjolras be matched in some way? He imagined the two of them working in sync, made for each other the way that Enjolras was with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the way Joly and Bossuet were with each other. It was almost impossible to think of. Enjolras was so… _Enjolras_.

Grantaire nearly snorted aloud at the thought of that, and rolled over and faced the wall, determined to fall asleep. 

It took them two months, but they finally got all of the pieces of _Trinity Revolution_ out of the ocean that could be recovered without turning to divers. His work finished and his friends, if not recovered, at least in stable condition, there was no outside reason for Grantaire to stay any longer. He was equal parts relieved and grateful when no one asked him if he was planning to leave.

They took the scavenged parts and new parts where they had to and used them to finish a new jaeger. 

Feuilly was working on the heart of the thing, but Grantaire was delegated to the exoskeleton. He was just taking a break and putting away his welding equipment when he happened to glance up and see a flash of red uniform and blond curls charging towards him. 

“Oh shit,” he muttered. Glancing down at the ladder he was on, he measured the likelihood that he would need to make a break for it, and the chances that Enjolras would be able to push him over from down there. 

“Grantaire!” While he had been thinking, Enjolras had already made it to the foot of the ladder. “Get down here. I need to talk to you.” 

“I’m okay up here, actually,” Grantaire said, pulling his foot up another rung, just out of Enjolras’s reach. 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras scowled. Then his face did something strange, almost softening. “I need to talk to you. Can we please do this in private?”

Grantaire hesitated. Figuring that it would be both pointless and embarrassing to make Enjolras promise not to murder him while they were alone, he slowly crept down the ladder. Enjolras waited until his feet were on the floor and then turned away, leading him out the side door and into the quieter hallway. 

“Lamarque showed me the videos,” Enjolras said without preamble. 

“I was young and I needed the money,” Grantaire deadpanned. 

Enjolras scowled at him. “You know which videos I mean. The test Eponine and Bahorel came up with. It seems pretty convinced that we’re drift compatible. And I know they would have told you about it.”

Grantaire crossed his arms. “So?”

“So?” Enjolras threw up his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep something like that from me?” 

“Because it’s all wrong!” the words were out of Grantaire’s mouth before he could even process it. He paused only long enough to breathe, unwilling to let Enjolras interrupt him, before he continued. “The test is still unproven. You already have two co-pilots, even if you needed another there’s no chance it would be me.” 

Enjolras puffed up like an angry cat. “So what?” he asked. “You’re saying I had my chance and I blew it?” 

Grantaire threw his hands up. “No! God, Enjolras, do you really think… What is wrong with you?”

“Then what are you talking about?” Enjolras snapped. 

“You’re just…” Grantaire gestured wildly at him. “I can’t be your copilot! You hate me!”

Big brown eyes blinked slowly at him. Enjolras’s face did something strange again, almost soft for a moment before his eyebrows knitted together and, the next second, he looked cold and hard as a jaeger. 

“Being drift compatible has nothing to do with affection,” Enjolras said firmly. “Not that I expect you to know that. I’ll tell Lamarque that you’re unwilling to help.” The 'again' went unsaid. 

He turned away without another barb, and somehow that hurt more than any of his insults ever would have.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite what he had expected, no one else approached Grantaire about it for several weeks. Bahorel and Eponine didn’t speak about the matter at all, although Courfeyrac did give him a few sidelong glances that made him wonder if the former pilot knew more than he let on. 

Enjolras didn’t speak to him at all. 

Grantaire did his best not to think about why that hurt so much. Enjolras, convinced once again that he was simply too lazy or too self-absorbed to help even when they needed it the most. Enjolras, looking at him with that disappointed, loathing gaze. Enjolras, unsurprised. 

Still, it was better than the alternative. Enjolras’s opinion of him hadn’t changed at all, it had only been validated. Better than Enjolras seeing into his head, learning what he was really like. Learning how he really felt about him.

And worse, he realized. Enjolras going back into the jaeger, unprepared, determined to prove himself to no one and everyone. He insisted on staying on the roster, even though both Combeferre and Courfeyrac were too injured to go out ever again. Pilots who went into the drift after an attack as fierce as that often didn’t ever come back, not fully. And Enjolras would put himself in that situation, willingly, knowingly.

Grantaire wasn’t sure if he thought Enjolras was brave or merely suicidal. 

He was informed by Eponine, murmuring secrets across the breakfast table, that even after the dozens of tests he put himself through, Enjolras was not multi-compatible. He turned up three potential co-pilots in the whole database: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire. 

That was good, Grantaire thought fiercely. If Enjolras wasn’t going to be able to drift without him, then he wouldn’t drift at all. And if all that Grantaire could do to keep him safe was to refuse to help him, to confirm Enjolras’s opinion of him again and again, then he would do it in a heartbeat. 

All of this was well and good until the kaiju that Bossuet nicknamed Brujon after a Parisian thug they’d once known. 

*

Brujon burst out of the water like a dancer, ate two fishing boats and a freight ship. He never fully surfaced, so they had no idea how large he might actually be. If a freighter that was several hundred meters long went down as easily as Grantaire could crunch on a potato chip, it was hard to imagine what the proportional eater was in this case. 

All hands were on deck for this one. _Giver Flock_ loaded up almost immediately, and the only thing holding them back was their backup. 

Eponine, it turned out, was one half of the crew of the sleek _Floral Smash_ that Grantaire had never worked on. The other pilot was a pretty young girl named Cosette who seemed almost troublingly excited about this whole venture. 

Several other bases on the project were preparing to send out their pilots to deal with it, but even so, the two remaining jaegers from Lamarque’s team were going to be woefully outmatched.

“I wish I could go,” Jehan said wistfully. They were the current resident kaiju expert, and while Grantaire couldn’t stop noticing the differences from the sharply intelligent, melancholy poet he’d known before the experimentation at the early stages of the jaeger project, they seemed at least content.

“Bahorel’s test didn’t turn anyone up for you?” Grantaire asked cautiously. He’d always been uncertain about Jehan, who seemed like the most obvious after Courfeyrac to be multi-compatible, but never seemed to have a copilot. 

Jehan shook their head miserably. “It’s possible that the early drift experiments scrambled my brains too much for me to be able to drift with anyone.” They caught Grantaire’s look and snorted. “You know you were thinking it too. If it was just a matter of safety, I’d jump all over it, but I can’t even get into the drift anymore. Or maybe I never got out of it. Either way, I’d be useless in a jaeger.” 

There was one spare jaeger, mostly constructed but unpolished. Bahorel had designed it for himself, and Feuilly had worked his magic on it. But Bahorel was compatible with Gavroche, who was still only fourteen, and regardless of how desperate the situation was, they all knew that Lamarque wasn’t going to send a child into the drift. 

That, Grantaire knew, left one drift compatible pair on the base, and one spare jaeger. He hesitated a moment, but then he remembered this morning, watching Joly and Bossuet suit up and go to meet Musichetta. Even to protect Enjolras, he couldn’t let them down. 

He stood abruptly and hurried out into the halls, saying only the briefest of goodbyes to Jehan, who didn’t seem to notice or care. Halfway down to the bullpen, he turned a corner and nearly crashed into Enjolras. 

“Grantaire.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said. He could convince himself that the run was what left him feeling breathless. 

“I was just coming to find you.”

“So was I.” 

Grantaire could feel himself blushing, and Enjolras was looking down at him so solemnly that he wondered how he could ever have denied their compatibility. 

All at once, Enjolras’s face broke into a smile. To compare it to the sun would be an insult to that smile. It wasn’t like flowers or springtime or the sun bursting from the clouds. It was the deep thrill of thunder you feel in your bones. It was a supernova. 

“Shall we?” 

Grantaire took his hand with a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

The jaeger was more cramped than they looked from the outside. Grantaire strapped himself in, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe, tried to pretend that he couldn’t feel Enjolras watching him, standing close enough to reach out and touch. 

“You’ve never drifted before, have you?” he asked. “Not even practice drifts.”

Next to them, _Giver Flock_ was activated, and the people on deck, so small and far away, all cleared out as its massive feet began to move. 

“No,” Grantaire said, trying to swallow his fear. 

Enjolras nodded. “Hold on to me,” he said. 

Grantaire glanced over, “I’m fairly certain I’m not actually supposed to be reaching out and holding my co-pilot. I mean, I’m not an expert…”

“Not physically,” Enjolras sighed. 

“Unnamed jaeger, ten seconds to activation.” 

The voice boomed through their intercom, and Grantaire jumped. 

“Don’t look so nervous,” Enjolras said. 

“Nine, eight…”

“Are you going to be okay with this?” asked Grantaire. “With what happened last time?”

“Four, three, two…”

Enjolras tightened his jaw. “I’d better be,” he said. 

_Hold on to me like this_

Grantaire hadn’t even heard the activation call, but suddenly he was there. Enjolras was next to him, yes, but he voice in his head- it wasn’t a voice, really. Like an echo of his own thoughts, like an echo of Enjolras’s thoughts. Silent, intimate, encompassing. 

They began to move, and Grantaire felt his body respond to Enjolras’s movements without really thinking about it. Mentally, he held tight to the voice in his head. 

He could feel it all at once, like all of Enjolras’s thoughts and memories were weighing down on him at the same time. The feeling of a warm hand on the back of his head, someone’s laughter, too sharp to be friendly. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, too young to be the people Grantaire remembered. He could feel the words of revolution flowing through his lips as if they were his own. 

He could see his own arrival into Enjolras’s life, feel his face heat up with rage and something other than rage. Watching himself from the outside, he saw his own lips, so chapped and dry, pressing against another’s- Floreal, his memory supplied, although Enjolras hadn’t known her name. His ears and eyes burned. 

Enjolras was pulling away now, following a memory. Combeferre, suiting up, and a hand on his shoulder. Promising him a game of chess when they got back. Courfeyrac laughing, calling them nerds, and adding in the same breath that he would crush them both. Courfeyrac’s voice, several days earlier, “If you’re still thinking about him, you know what that means. It’s been seven years.”

The kaiju leaping out of the water. Enjolras raised his hand to strike it, batting it away, but it only came back again at the other side. Courfeyrac screamed as its claws latched around him, and both of his co-pilots did too. For a moment, it felt like there was nothing but the scream. 

And then fire. A missile, launched by Eponine, piercing straight through the arm, breaking it off. The kaiju was detached from them, but they were surrounded by flames, and Courfeyrac wasn’t moving. Even the pain that screamed through their link was better than the emptiness, like a third of him was gone. 

Combeferre was hunched over himself, detached. Enjolras could still feel his pain- _Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac_ \- but nothing of the logic and coherency he normally relied so heavily on. He was stranded, alone, and he reached out with the remaining strength he had, turned to take one step, to drag them back to shore if he had to, anything to get them to safety. 

“Enjolras.” 

The jaeger buckled at the knees and Enjolras felt like he might collapse himself. 

“Enjolras.” 

The water would rush in and drown him, which would be preferably, except Combeferre was still alive, and Courfeyrac- he reached out through their link, seeking a heartbeat-

“ _Enjolras_ ”

Grantaire was there with him, Grantaire couldn’t be there but he could feel it like he was being wrapped up in arms from behind, like he was being pulled away. “Don’t go down there,” Grantaire said, and he was holding him, and- 

They broke to the surface of the drift with simultaneous gasps. Grantaire could feel the phantom pain in Enjolras’s foot, and he knew without having to glance over that Enjolras was breathing heavily. 

“One step at a time,” Enjolras said firmly. If they weren’t linked, Grantaire might have thought he was pretending that nothing had happened, but he knew better now, could feel the current of fear that ran underneath those words. “We move out of sync, but together. Do you think you can do that?” 

Grantaire almost laughed. He could feel Enjolras’s own recognition, his amusement. This was how they always moved. 

“Together, then.” 

The jaeger moved. 

*

Eponine and Cosette were submerged within minutes of their arrival, attacking from underneath. Grantaire shot a strain of worry towards Enjolras, who thought _It’s designed for that_. 

The _Flock_ was on the other side, striking with several sharp edges at the kaiju’s side. Brujon turned and roared, and Grantaire got a very clear view of more teeth than could possibly be biologically necessary. 

Something that was, at best, a tongue shot out. Grantaire could see that it, too, was lined with teeth. This was clearly excessive. Enjolras had an image of grabbing it, severing it at the base, and using it as a weapon. Grantaire ignored that idea and ducked. 

_Try not to get us killed_. 

Enjolras, in other news, might be the only human being capable of telepathically glaring at someone. 

They moved opposite the _Flock_ , firing simultaneously, and Brujon roared in pain and rage, whipping his head around. Whatever Cosette and Eponine were doing, it seemed to be working. 

Grantaire adjusted quickly to the drift. He found that if he switched his focus often enough, he could keep one half of his attention on piloting the jaeger, and the other half on Enjolras. His co-pilot’s mind kept straying down the hole of memories, and every time a claw or tail came too close to them he flinched internally. Grantaire soothed him, wishing that they were on shore and he could hold him. 

By now, he didn’t even try to fight those feelings. Enjolras knew what he knew, and that was that. 

Brujon turned suddenly, his tail whipping about, and he caught the _Flock_ off guard, tripping them up and knocking them to the ground. Grantaire almost tried to send his thoughts to his friends to check on them, before remembering that it was only him and Enjolras here. 

“Bossuet here,” came the familiar voice over the intercom. “We’re hit. I think part of the system is damaged, but everyone’s alright.” 

Brujon turned again. His teeth were up close, his mouth directly in front of them. Grantaire thought of Courfeyrac’s scream. Enjolras wondered if its breath was poisonous. 

“Team leader.” Lamarque’s voice filtered through. “ _Flock_ , can you still fight?”

Enjolras thought of fire and Grantaire thought of love. They raised their arm and fired. 

“That’s a negative, team leader,” Enjolras said, and it was strange to hear his voice out loud. “We’re heading back to base.” 

The missile settled for a moment in Brujon’s stomach and then erupted.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire had trouble remembering how long they were in the launch bay after they returned. Feuilly shook his head over the damage to _Giver Flock_ , and somehow, despite being inside the jaeger the whole time, Eponine and Cosette were both soaking wet. Enjolras leaned on Grantaire while climbing out of the jaeger, the phantom pains in his foot where it had burned up in the first attack still bothering him. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he knew that without their link. 

There was cheering and celebration, the kind that Grantaire had only ever seen on TV, when the stations were sure that they would survive anything. It seemed to go on for hours, and Lamarque made a speech that was quite a downer about how they had won the battle but not the war. Courfeyrac caught Grantaire’s eye and made a face at that. 

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Combeferre murmured to Grantaire as they broke up. Courfeyrac had yanked Enjolras down to his level and was hugging him hard enough that it couldn’t possibly be comfortable. 

“What else could I do?” 

Combeferre gave him a penetrating look, and Grantaire remembered the memories filtering through Enjolras of being in his head. It felt oddly one-sided, that he knew that about Combeferre but Combeferre would never know him that way. 

He wanted to say something deep and sure, to tell Combeferre that he knew how much love he had for his friends, that he remembered the feeling of pain and loss and confusion when Courfeyrac was almost taken from them- but Combeferre was smiling broadly like all of that terror had never crossed his mind, and regardless of the drift, Grantaire could respect that. 

“Don’t get sappy,” he warned. _I’ll protect him_ , he meant.

Combeferre nodded like he understood. 

Enjolras was there at his arm then, Courfeyrac behind him laughing with Musichetta. “Can I talk to you?” 

Grantaire gestured with a wide, sweeping arm at the side door. “After you.”

*

Enjolras did not pause in the hallway. Instead, he led Grantaire down the corridors and paused in front of his room. 

“Is this okay?” he asked. “I want to talk somewhere private.” 

Grantaire swallowed down the comment that he would, at one time, have given anything to see the inside of Enjolras’s bedroom. 

“Anywhere you like,” he said. 

Enjolras let them both in and shut the door. He lived in sparse quarters, the privacy the only extravagant thing about them. He had no posters on his walls, no pictures of friends or family. His bed was made and untouched, but his desk was cluttered and well-used. 

Enjolras himself was standing by the door, partially in shadow, and looking at Grantaire with a helpless gaze. 

“Tell me?” he asked. 

Grantaire swallowed. “What do you want to know?” 

“Tell me what I saw,” Enjolras said, “but in words. Will you?” 

“Anything,” Grantaire insisted. “I’ve always loved you.” This was both a response to Enjolras’s question and the beginning of the story he had demanded. “I wanted to follow you here in the beginning, but I would have only been in the way. I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“I always wanted you with me,” Enjolras said. That wasn’t what Grantaire had meant and they both knew it. “I thought you wouldn’t want to come because-“

“You thought I was a coward?” Grantaire asked dryly. 

“You had a life there,” said Enjolras. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. Or maybe, as Grantaire was coming to realize, there was nothing unusual about that tenderness at all, only that he so rarely felt willing to show it. “I didn’t know you went to the Wall after we left. I had thought- I had hoped- that you would stay in Paris. Where you were safe.”

There was a retort on his tongue, asking if this was really what Enjolras thought of him, that he was a coward who would stay where he was safe, but he didn’t say it. This wasn’t Enjolras’s opinion of him, it was his hope. 

“Knowing you were safe was the only thing I held on to for those seven years,” Enjolras said softly. “I never stopped thinking of you.”

“I know,” Grantaire said. He thought of the words exchanged with Courfeyrac, just days before the terrible attack. “I didn’t stay much longer after you left. There was nothing for me in Paris without you.”

“The last thing I said to you before I left,” Enjolras said. “That you were in love with Paris.”

“I was,” said Grantaire. 

Enjolras took a step forward. Then he hesitated. 

“Is this why you didn’t want to drift with me?” he asked. “Because I’d find out?”

“Partially,” Grantaire admitted. “Mostly, though, I just wanted to keep you safe.”

Neither of them had to say what he meant there. The way Enjolras had chased the memories, had nearly been lost to them. Sometimes it was hard to say if the kaiju were more dangerous or the drift. 

But Enjolras shook his head at that thought. “None of us are safe,” he said. “It’s the end of the world, remember?” 

Grantaire smiled. “I know,” he said. 

He could have said more. He could have said that, for the first time, he felt safe, here on the front lines, with the others all around him. He could have said that safety was overrated, pointed out that Combeferre and Courfeyrac would go through what they had all over again just to protect their loved ones from what had been waiting for them out at see. He could have even said that Enjolras was just as foolish as he was, dreaming of Grantaire safe and free in Paris, when no such thing would have been possible. 

But he didn’t say any of that, because Enjolras kissed him then, a warm hand at the back of his head. Grantaire sighed and melted into the kiss like the ice he had cut in the North would have melted under the hot California sun. 

Without opening his eyes, he could feel Enjolras smiling into the kiss, and it was a smile that was a supernova, and it warmed him from the inside out.


End file.
